


Starbursts Along Your Spine

by ShippersList



Series: Whumptober 2018 [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Depression, Gen, POV Second Person, Sheriff Stilinski's A+ Parenting, Suicidal Thoughts, Whumptober 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 06:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16258202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: Stiles, after yet another fight.Whumptober prompt: Bruises





	Starbursts Along Your Spine

You drag yourself back home after yet another fight. The house is dark and silent because your dad is either working or passed out on the couch, and you couldn’t care less. You don’t remember when you stopped caring but you do remember that your dad didn’t notice.

After parking the car, you grip the steering wheel so tight your knuckles go white, lean forward as much as your fractured ribs allow, and try to breathe. Sometimes you can, sometimes you can’t, and the nauseating limbo before you find out never ceases to make your heads spin.

When you feel like you can do more than gasp lungfuls of air while your head’s spinning so hard you don’t know which way is up and which is down, you exit the Jeep, close the door, and wish by everything that’s holy that the door opens the next morning. You could crawl in through the back window but with the state you’re in, you’d rather fucking not.

Your trusted aluminum bat lets out a sound not unlike the one you hear when you scrape your fingernails across the blackboard, but you don’t have it in you to care. The quiet neighborhood has been averting its eyes for years now, ever since your mom died and your dad decided he liked the bottle more than you. They won’t give a damn if you come home covered in blood, as long as you don’t go and bleed on their lawn.

For a moment, you wonder if it’s worth the agony to climb upstairs and pass out in your own bed or if you should just give up and take the couch instead. But you remember how uncomfortable the lumpy pillows are and decide to grit your teeth and make it into your own room even if it kills you. If you’re lucky, it just might.

The piles of books and half-finished schoolwork remind you of the mundane things you should be taking care of but can’t because of all the supernatural shit that keeps happening. You know you can fake your way through most of the class just by sheer force of will, but sooner or later your backlog is going to catch up with you. Then again, would it even matter? Will you even stay alive long enough to go to college?

You down a couple of painkillers and a glass of water, wipe your face with wet hands to get rid of the worst of the blood, and close your eyes as you take off your shirt. Even without looking, you know your torso is covered with bruises old and new, sickly yellow mixed with fresh purple ones, the kind that throb in rhythm with your heartbeat. If you cut a fresh bruise open, would the blood pulse out in beat as well? Or would it just trickle out, sluggish and exhausted like you?

You sigh, shake your head, and limp back to your room and settle on the bed. You feel like faceplanting on it but that would lead to pain and you’ve had enough for the night. Well, in reality, you’ve had enough for _life_ but nobody asked you.

Tomorrow, your so-called friends will clap you on your back, ask if you did the research of the new this-or-that threat, and if you could borrow the math notes, please. You’ll say you didn’t have the time yet and they’ll make a face because honestly, Stiles, there are lives on the line here. You’ll promise you’ll get back to it as soon as you get home and they’ll give you the puppy eyes and a happy smile, and you’ll wonder when that face turned from a loved one into something you’d happily maul with your bat.

And then you’ll face another threat, fight it the best you could, always giving your all because, despite everything, you’re desperate to live, desperate to save this town even if it gives you nothing in return. And later, you’ll return to the same dark house you’ve returned for years now, rinse, repeat.

You wonder how long you can do this before you crack.

And you wonder if anyone will notice.

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, this paves the way to the Nogitsune.
> 
> (I wrote this in 30 minutes. Projecting, much?)


End file.
